Compost, Including Compost

Grow, Baby, Grow!
A few days ago, I asked Byron to dig up the little spot where I proposed to transplant my zinnia seedlings, which were doing very well, and would soon need more space. Byron hauled in a few bucketfuls of good rich earth to mix with the plot, and added some fertilizer. He agreed that late afternoon, after the heat of the day had peaked, would be best for transplanting, and returned at four.

The plot was nicely raked and looked perfect, until I poked my little spade into the earth and it hit hardness about one inch in. Byron had merely spread the new soil over the hard-as-concrete earth. I explained that we needed to excavate at least six inches down before we could transplant anything, so we got to work. It was hot going, and I rubbed a big painful blister in the center of my palm, but eventually, we had a proper seed bed, raked and ready. We carefully set out the zinnias and watered the plot gently, and stuck a few leftovers in the circle around the newly planted laurel sapling. Here it is this morning:

Don't you love my makeshift fence? So far, no doggies have crossed the line,

I am happy to say that all but one have survived thus far, despite a very heavy rain overnight two nights ago. Byron has begun preparing the main garden, earning his own blisters, and I hope to have zucchini in the ground before the weekend ends.

Rotting in Heaven
No longer do I throw out the yummy peelings and fruit rinds with the trash. Now we have a compost heap in a back corner of the garden next to the house. Mixed with good rich loam, my eggshells and coffee grounds are evolving into fabulous nutrients for next year's garden. This year, I have a sack of 15-15-15 to do the honors

Alex Trebek is Back in my Life!
Maria José took me to a resale shop in Dolores, a small town between Diriamba and Jinotepe, to look for another television. We found an older Panasonic, the heavy sort with a bulging backside, but working well, with its remote control. We flagged down a taxi, and then a tuk tuk in Diriamba to get the thing home. The cable guys returned the next day and hooked me up. One problem: the news channels I had ordered did not seem to be available, so I made a fourth trip to the Claro offices and asked them to resolve the issue. They did, and now I have BBC news, and a couple of Miami network stations. After nearly a year without television, I was thrilled to sit and enjoy Jeopardy again. Also Graham Norton, bless 'im! And news,news, news. Most of it awful.

Sofa Blues
Yesterday, MJ and I went to Masatepe -- Furnituretown, Nicaragua. I doubted I'd find a sofa in my price range, but it was worth looking. And I like riding the bus with her. It looked pretty dismal until we gave up and went to find a place to have lunch. There, on the porch of a store, was a long, wooden sofa that was deep enough to be a bed, and it was only $260. The cushions are blue, and I plan to dye them black, but here is a photo au naturel.

The sofa sits opposite my Peruvian wall hanging, with which blue mos' def does not go.

Notice my new TV? Pretty high tech stuff!

(P.S.  31 May
The dye did not work very well. The royal blue is now navy blue. Must reupholster!)

A Dish on the Roof

The Claro cable company may be forgiven for thinking me the most idiotic Norteamericana ever. First, I showed up to order cable at the Diriamba office, which sent me to the Jinotepe office. It seems the Diriamba office handles phone service and accepts payment for cable, but Jinotepe, just a few kilometers down the highway holds the supreme command. I ordered and paid for new service, and when the crew showed up to install the dish, they were slightly put off by my having no television at the moment. Uh, who knew? I thought they would run a cable into my sala and I would hook it up. Wrong.

So, I borrowed a television from Stefan. And today, the cable crew returned and installed the dish on the roof, and ran the cable into the house. When they tried to establish a relationship between the TV and the dish, the TV kept turning on and off.  I had to promise to take the TV to a tech repair shop and have it fixed and then they would return and finish the job. I felt like an ass. And very disappointed. With such limited internet, I am roaming my house swatting flies, and walking through the garden picking tiny caterpillars off the chili plants, and reading H.G. Wells’ incredibly tedious “Utopia.” I admit I was looking forward to having TV after nearly a year of none. Even Miami news looked good to me.

Notice the big orangish-red dish atop my roof?

Today, Byron mowed the lawn. We do not have a lawn mower. You may never complain again of the need to cut the grass unless you are willing to do it with a machete! My 65-year-old back ached in sympathy as he moved, crablike, across the yard. Then he raked it all up and left on his bicycle. Oh, to be young again.

I was telling my friend Tom that this time in Nicaragua is the first in twenty years that I have not lost sleep because of money worries. After my brilliant abbreviated career in broadcasting, I had little trouble finding work as a writer, but I never made good money again. Raising a child alone and stretching entry-level wages to cover expenses is not conducive to sound sleep. Here, my modest pension and Social Security are ample to meet my needs. Except this month, when I had an enormous vet bill and a gi-gunda electric bill. No complaints, mind you. My empleados have been paid and I have a freezer full of food. And a SS payment next week. Imagine! Flat broke and happy.

You Say Cilantro, I say Culantro

Very different plants: the former is leggy, with triple erose leaves, slow to sprout, and self-seeding for the next season, at least in my Pennsylvania herb garden; the latter grows wild in Nicaragua, close to the ground, with round-tipped spear leaves, edged with spiky points. It is also cultivated at a larger size, and sold in the super. Here is an internet photo of cilantro:

And these are culantro plants in my yard.

Cilantro and culantro have the same flavor, fragrant and distinctive. Some people hate it, and say it tastes like soap. I learned to love it in Peruvian cuisine, and it is widely used here in Nica. It provides a central flavor of ceviche, that tangy mix of lime juice, onion, chilies, ginger and raw fish. It adds aromatic savor to tomato and chicken soups, pico de gallo, and is fabulous with jalapeño in hummus.

Riding back from Managua yesterday, the winding route into the hills on the Pan-American Highway nearly brought my usual nightmare to life. Cars and trucks, as well as the buses and vans in which I ride, pass slower vehicles with alarming unconcern for the blind turn ahead. The “almost accident” involved a military vehicle passing my bus, and an oncoming driver who slammed on his brakes and did a one-eighty into the curb of the opposite lane. I believe there was considerable damage to the rear end of the car, and the driver, though shaken, was uninjured. The military vehicle sat in its passing posture for about fifteen minutes, while traffic in both directions maneuvered around it. We pulled off the road; our van driver and half the passengers walked back to see what was what, and then when we finally resumed our trip, the conversation centered on the hellacious disregard of drivers who pass so dangerously. Our driver was stonefaced, and guilty as sin.

When the porter passed through the van collecting fares, the older lady beside me with a big plastic covered box on her lap paid him in change. Lots of change. Apparently, she is a vendor of slices of cake, individually wrapped, and she added a slice to her handful of cordoba coins. People chuckled at this little propino (tip) for the porter, but there was method in her largesse. Several passengers then asked to buy her cakes, and she did pretty good business on her way home.

Usually, I am the only gringa on the bus. Many of the porters in the Jinotepe-Managua-bound runs know me by now, if only for that reason. It’s funny, how some riders will smile at me and say “Hi,” or “How are you?” because they correctly assume my native language. But that’s all the English they have. It’s like when North Americans who speak no Spanish say “Adios!” to a Latino. My gring-osity hurts when I am dickering with a cabbie; when I’m with Noel, the fares are half what I am charged, and sometimes fruit vendors charge me higher prices as well. I am far too classy to complain, unless it is blatant profiteering. When I ask the fare to my house from Diriamba, a van porter may say 30 cordobas, which is the full fare to Managua, and he gets a smirk from me.  10 or 15 is what I normally pay. 

Oh, boy! Another Snake!

This photo is from a site of great pix and no information. So I cannot yet name this reptile.



This is a photo of a dead version of the same snake:

Maria José came in to tell me she’d seen a culebra, a snake, behind the water tank. She said it was poisonous and a danger to the dogs. I went with her to see it, and she chased it out with a length of PVC pipe and dispatched it like a pro. 

La Matadora

I hope it really was poisonous, and needed to be killed; in his last years, my father so appreciated life that he didn’t even want a fly to die at his hand. I feel much the same, although I kill flies with shameless glee... I've looked up the species of serpent, without success. I’m not sure I’ll feel differently even if it is poisonous. Vipers deserve to live, too. (Yes, it was venomous, according to the vet, who came with another injection for Susie.)

Little Susie is (temporarily) Skinny Ol’ Susie. She appears to have recovered from her bout with parvo virus, and has fleeting moments of appetite. She and Brynn are the only two in the hotdog lineup now, but Susie is as enthusiastic as ever. Big relief. Brynn has been just a tad bitchy to Susie, guarding her food and growling. It will pass.

Thanks to all the welding involved in construction of the Godzilla fence, my electric bill was five times bigger than last month’s!  Of course, last month had no fridge or computer or lamps in use, either. I figure the bill should even out at about $25.

About lamps: most Nicaraguan homes I’ve visited have few or no lamps to speak of. And many ceiling fixtures consist of a single bare bulb. Most houses have no closets, either. There just are not so many clothes, shoes, hats or what-have-you to require that kind of storage space. New homes being built usually have closets, due to consumer demand. Many Nicaraguans who left to live in the States or elsewhere come back in retirement with a taste for closets, small appliances, Twitter, and lamps.

And here is my new bookcase!  I actually wish it were a bit bigger, as there are more doodads cluttering the house. But I did empty most of the remaining boxes, and I think it looks swell. Those dolls on top are my latest acquisition from the San Sebastian Festival in Diriamba, costumed in the Güegüense tradition described in a January blog piece.

Thanks to Erlinda and Parzi for the hours of wifi in their Managua home!

Books, Blooms, and Babies

Maria José’s husband Jonathan is a carpenter and construction worker. He’s a cheerful bloke, and a good dad to their sons, Jonathan Jr. and the baby Harold. I asked if he would want to build a bookcase for me, and he made up a plan based on the dimensions I gave him. He had the wood sawn and delivered today, and he brought his tools and, well, there is now a six-foot bookcase on my porch waiting to be varnished tomorrow!

Here are the two Jonathans with the half finished librero.

And Harold.

The whole family came, and Maria José gave a much-needed bath to Little Susie. Our patient is still feeble and not eating, although she had a temporary appetite this morning at 3:30. She followed me out of the bathroom to the kitchen and sat with Brynn, as they do when they expect their daily hotdog pieces. So I obliged, and she ate with near gusto. But later, when we started the day, she was back in sick mode. She is improving slowly. I’m still injecting liquid food.

She was not thrilled to be clean at last.

We started some zinnias on Wednesday, and by Friday, some had already sprouted. Here is the seed frame on Saturday afternoon. Zinnias do not transplant easily, so I do not know how many will make it to adulthood. But this seems like pretty quick growth, and I am hoping for armfuls of color in July.

On the literary front, I am marching through the H.G. Wells canon of weird and wonderful tales. Just finished “The First Men in the Moon.” Even the title betrays the gist of the story. They are not on the moon; they are indeed in it. Writing in his century, his speculations about the times we are living in can seem silly and jejune. But his belief in individual dignity and his disdain for soulless greed for power and wealth give his fables substance and character. I will note that he goes on and on and on sometimes. I keep thinking I’ve come to a lyrical or ambivalent end of the story, only to turn the page and find a new chapter. He had a bit too much in common with Ayn Rand, methinks.

Also, thanks to friend Tom Matrullo, I am reading Will Durant’s book of bests, or most importants – his useful summary of all knowledge, history, art, poetry, and philosophy. What a wonderful guide to the reader who wants to use well what time she has left for expanding her comprehension of humanity. “The Greatest Minds and Ideas of All Time.” That’s the title of Durant’s compendium. Go get it.

Gotta Go to Internet Rehab, and I say No, no. no!

Fellow luddites, hear me well. Until your ISP (that’s Internet Service Provider, I think) limits your monthly data usage to 1G, you have NEVER appreciated the sublime ignorance an unlimited service allows.  Of course, to me, it seems like yesterday that a 1G digital camera was simply miraculous.

This morning, I found a “data usage” button on my phone, and thought it might be prudent to see what little bit of my monthly allowance I had used in one day to that point. Shock and disbelief! I have used – 578 MB, which I am told, constitutes over half my pittance until 1 June!  Oh dear, there goes my daily New York Times crossword puzzle and my 80% solve rate. There goes my Amazon Prime music service that has provided me hours of pleasure, not to mention Spottify. No more leisurely browsing through book lists on Amazon to feed my addition to reading. No more Scrabble with my smart siblings who beat me more than I care to admit. And Facebook? That big time-gobbler is now on a starvation diet.

\

I am going to try and limit myself to 15 minutes online to post pre-written blog entries and letters. I tried to download the NYT, so that I could read it offline, but it didn’t work. Suggestions, anyone? One fucking G, say I.

Planting by the Moon

On the local front, Byron has been busily planting the dozens of hydrangeas and saplings my landlady left here, root balls bagged in tiny black “bolsitas,” some of which have perished waiting to be planted. A couple of days ago, Byron refused to plant anything because the moon was not right. Today, the moon must be smiling, because he is digging holes and planting trees now.

A gorgeous oriole thinks his reflection in my window is a rival. He managed to get thru a hole in the screen in the second bedroom and could not find his way out. He was pretty terrified when I came into the room to take down the screen, but he flew out almost immediately. Great to see such a pretty creature up close.

.

The vet bill for Little Susie is growing. He has done all he can, and it is up to her to recover her appetite and get her system rebooted. I am giving her raw beaten egg with an injector, and plan to make some sort of rice and chicken liquid in the blender.  She is just skin and bone now, and I do not feel confident she’ll make it. I nursed another dog thru parvo, and she survived. Awful virus.

Must fly. So much to say. So few MBs…

Still Offline, Coping With Parvo

The U.S. Embassy is an imposing, rather ugly modern cluster of buildings behind a high fence. I had visited it several times long ago during my previous travels to the country. All the security personnel are Nicaraguan. I heard no English spoken until my name was called in the waiting room where many Nicas were waiting for visas to travel to the States. My “counselor” was a woman near my age, who, without comment, filled out the appropriate form to un-enroll from Plan B. She took my new address and said that Social Security would mail me confirmation. I hope the order goes into effect before the letter arrives, which could take a month.

 

On the home front, Little Susie has come down with parvo virus. Silvio, the itinerant vet, came yesterday and gave her injections and some sort of magnesia liquid I must force down her throat three times a day. She is the most pathetic sight; she has hidden herself in holes she dug under flowering bushes, so she’s filthy. She smells bad, and I will spare you the fulsome details of her evacuations. Thankfully, Brynn was inoculated against parvo before we traveled here. She is so afraid of Silvio (after a couple of painful tick injections) that she hid under the bed long after he had gone. I do not know if Susie is out of the woods. Silvio promised to return today to check on her.

This morning, as I opened Word, a “MiClaro” screen appeared. Claro is the local communications company that provides this phone hotspot internet service. The message on the screen was that I needed to buy more credits to restore my internet. I immediately called Parzi, forgetting that it was only 6 a.m., woke him up, and asked him to put some more credit on this account. Duh!  All this agony for naught but a renewal of internet time! I hope he is not too peeved with my early call and that later this morning, I can finally begin posting these pages.

P.S. on Wednesday, 11 May. Claro flat-out refused to accept more money. Who knows why? Wednesday, today, I went to Movistar and signed up for a package that gives me internet access, but limited to one G. More after a month. Susie still alive, final injection this evening. Fingers crossed that she makes it. A sweet little dog.

Written Offline Sunday 8 May

 Yesterday, Saturday, I lost my internet connection. All indicators were fine. My phone hotspot was on, my computer admitted to being connected, but every site I tried to load resulted in a “Took too long to load” message. I waited until this morning to call Parzi, who assured me that in this “dead zone” I live in, this sort of occurrence was bound to happen. I should wait, and try later. Which I did. I am dead in the water, and finally I have resorted to Word to pull together a blog entry. I expect, if there is no change in my out-of-the-internet status, I will find a café or some other option for uploading this piece.

This abrupt absence of connection to the world beyond my simple life in Nicaragua has upended my state of mind. I cannot tolerate being unconnected! I am mildly embarrassed and seriously disturbed by my sense of desperation. I am, as fellow broadcasters can relate, a news junkie. I NEED news. I need politics, I need to know what happens in the Middle East, Australia, Europe, the U.S., Haiti, and Argentina. And Brazil. And the whole damned world. I need to know if anyone has thought to send me an email. I need to know if anything I care about has changed. I am an addict to knowledge that is current and reliable. The latter is often not immediately evident, but I can usually do some checking. Usually. But not now. Oh, help!

Here, Susie was sick last night and all day. She has finally accepted some food. Brynn is a jealous little bitch, resenting every time I forced water down Susie’s dehydrated gullet. My vet has warned me that living next to a bosque - a wooded area – is problematic for dogs. The rainy season brings toads, which can cause intoxication and death if eaten (see last year’s entry about Lukie), and snakes – the poisonous varieties- are a threat. Oh, great…

My Social Security payment went down, about $125 per month. I discovered that I was enrolled in Medicare Part B. How did that happen? Medicare has almost nothing to offer me here in another country, although in Nicaragua, the costs are so much less than in the U.S., it would behoove Medicare to cover my potential costs here. I contacted Social Security to un-enroll myself, and was informed that I needed to complete a form they would be glad to post to me. I explained that I hoped it could be done before the month or two it would take to receive their mail. Thus, I have made an appointment at the U.S. Embassy to “be counseled” regarding my desire to not be enrolled in Part B. My appointment is tomorrow.

Will I find a way to post this admittedly cranky contribution? 

P.S. No, but I was able to post from my computer today, Wednesday. I'm BACK!

A Floral-logue

My garden is coming alive thanks in part to the quantities of rain we've had recently. The large avocado tree is, sorry to say, nearing the end of its fruiting season, and I have enjoyed every bite. Here are a few still on the tree, if you can spot the four in this frame.

The garden is not overwhelmed with flowers, but there are bright colors here and there, and I did try to find a web site which would identify my specimens properly, without success. Maria José offered some local names. This one looks like a cana to me; she calls it "Bandera Española."

This is a floral tree growing beneath a coconut tree Maria José calls "Musa."

Bougainvillea, or "veranera," as it's called here.

And "Trinitaria."

A variety of hibiscus, called "Flor de Avizpa"

These are called "lirio", and I have them in pink and red; they remind me of candle flames.

Here are some pinkish flowers called "Juanita,", and some ground cover that reminds me of buttercups, called "Grama Mani."

Byron is here today planting some hydrangeas my landlady intended to put in, but left under a tree in their little black plastic bags. They are called "Milleflores" here, and although I do not care for hydrangea, I hate to see them wasted. 

Bits & Bobs

Hot Gringa Sex, Anyone?
Motels in the U.S. were a key element in the evolution of American car culture. Here in Nicaragua, not so much. Motels do indeed serve weary travelers on occasion, but according to my sources, they exist primarily for sex.  Now, not only does my official address include mention of the motel  that lies almost directly across the highway, but I cite it as a landmark for my parada (stop) to every bus porter I meet as I am riding back from Diriamba on a Managua-bound run. Today it just occurred to me that somebody could reasonably connect my bus stop with my potential occupation which takes me regularly to the motel.  However, at my age, there conceivably may be a compliment in there somewhere...

Mares Eat Oats
And plenty of what grows on the other side of the famous Godzilla fence.  For three mornings in a row, a pretty little chestnut mare and her rather homely foal have browsed for an hour or so, and seem not to mind the frantic yelping of Brynn. To the contrary, they ignore her completely. It is I of whom they are afraid, as these pictures testify.

The moment they noticed me, off they went!

A Tragedy of Trash

Last Friday, the trash brigade stopped by to tell me that I needed to visit the alcaldia, the local municipal office in San Marcos, to pay my basura recogida fee. Trash collection is on Fridays and Tuesdays. Saturday, I went to San Marcos to find the office closed. Monday I went again, but it was still closed, this time for May Day, El Día de los Trabajadores, or Labor Day. Tuesday was the charm, and I paid 400 cordobas for the remainder of the year, about $15.

I had purchased several large woven plastic sacks to hold the trash for pickup. In La Boquita, the cuidador carried out the sacks to the truck, the men dumped them and threw back the sacks for reuse. Last Thursday evening, I dragged out a big red sack of basura, including many large plastic soft drink bottles left by the fence crew, and a few moving boxes for the Friday pickup.  When Maria José arrived the next morning, she brought to my attention the appalling array of garbage that covered the ground where my neat pile had been. Someone had admired my nice new red sack and decided to take it home, after dumping out its contents as chaotically as possible. 

We cleaned it all up in time to greet the garbage truck and get the word on paying the fee. The crew hit me up for cold water, which I was happy to provide; I hope the request doesn't become routine. It's a hot trot from my exterior gate to the house.  The house, by the way, is looking more and more like home. More pix coming soon.

Oh, It's Now the Rainy Season.

Today, my grounds guy Byron showed up to spread gravel around the outer circumference of the house, which is, well, dirt when it's dry and mud when it isn't.  Byron was careful to stay in the lines and did a fine job of covering the dirt and creating a deterrent to muddy paws that keep Maria José busy with her mop.  Just as Byron finished his work, the heavens opened and a twenty-minute torrent ensued. The yard quickly flooded, as did the whole area around the house. 

Byron (L), Maria José, and her brother Roger, who was working next door.

We couldn't tell if the gravel was being washed away or not, but I am delighted to show that it survived intact, and there is no gucky mud in evidence! Just look at that marvelous gravel!